


Stranded

by vysila



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Action & Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2014-12-18
Packaged: 2018-03-02 00:37:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2793410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vysila/pseuds/vysila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya and Napoleon get stranded on a tropical island. Sort of.</p><p>Selyndae wanted something:  hot (climate or otherwise) with extra prompts of tuxedo and caramel</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stranded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [selyndae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/selyndae/gifts).



_Somewhere off the Coast of Central America_

  
Another bullet spanged off the windscreen and ricochet splinters gouge my hand and arm. Damn, that one had been close!

  
"Can't you hold it steady?" I hear Illya yell. "I can't get a good shot!"

  
Hold the feisty little go-fast steady? Hell, I was doing well just to hang on to the wheel with my bloody, half-paralyzed hands. The thought of what would happen if I lost even that much control made my heart climb into my throat. At this speed and in this chop, we'd be fodder for either the sharks or the birds – or maybe both. And it sure doesn't help that we're barreling along at a good 60 knots in pure darkness, with absolutely zero knowledge of any potential obstacles.

  
"Just do the best you can!" I bellow back and hope he can hear me over the dual engines and wind. And I hope to all that's holy that he had sense enough to lash himself to something, because the way we are bouncing around, falling overboard seems a statistical likelihood.

  
Another bullet flies past my head and I hear it thunk solidly into the bow. Still, I know I'd made a good choice back there on the dock. Our go-fast was living up to her name, at least in comparison to the pursuing boat. With a little luck we'd outdistance those Thrushies soon and…

  
Yeah, I didn't have a clue.

  
I spare a quick glance backwards. The other boat's searchlight strafes across our little speedboat and by its glare I see Illya braced against the aft rail – ohgodohgodohgod he's not lashed! – and lifting something to his shoulder. I have no idea where the AK-47 came from, maybe they're standard equipment on Thrush boats, but it sure looks like salvation from here, especially in Illya's hands.

  
Illya will never admit this, but the shot he made had to be pure luck, because he nailed the gas tank on the other boat with a tracer round. Everything went a little surreal then, like time wrinkled its nose before erupting in the original Big Bang.

  
I was too busy ducking and shielding myself from flame and grisly debris to watch the fireworks, but I carried with me the vision of my tuxedo-clad partner riding out the blast with a wide-legged stance and a manic grin. Like I said. Surreal.

  
"Crazy Russian!" I yelled but knew better than to try to haul him down to the deck with me. He does love his explosions.

  
I tip back my head and give thanks to the god I don't believe in that Illya was still standing when I climbed to my feet. And then I clutch him tight against me and hang on for dear life and wait for my heart to stop pounding out of my chest.

I guess maybe he had some gratitude of his own to express too, because it wasn't long before he claimed my mouth, his hot, slick tongue gliding along mine and I could only surrender to that sweet, searching pressure.

He is first to pull away and survey the surrounding nothingness. "Any survivors, you think?"

  
"Other than us?" It's hard to image such a possibility after that inferno. Illya is pretty thorough about explosions, even accidental ones. "Unlikely."

  
I don't need to say that we'll search as soon as we have enough life, but my guess is we'll see maybe a few chunks of Fiberglas and a dispersing oil slick.

  
Over his shoulder the first faint streaks of pink paint the horizon. "Here comes the dawn. At least we have our directions now."

  
I know from experience that dawn is sudden over the ocean, quite Biblical. Let there be light; and there was light.

  
And by that light we saw pretty much what we expected: nothing. No boat, just a few bits and bobs already floating away on the current. No bodies. The silence was profound beyond the immediate small noises we made ourselves.

  
He sighs heavily, dramatically. "I hate the sea." Sight confirms what I'd already guessed from touch and smell, that his face is black with oil-smoke and he's generally pretty singed around the edges. But his eyes sparkle with life and I am so desperately grateful for that.

  
I rub my thumb across his cheek. "You're a dirty fellow, Kuryakin."

  
"So I've been told." His big hands, hands that had meted out death only moments ago, now cradle my injured hands with unspeakable tenderness. "You're bleeding, Napoleon. Sit down. I'll look for a first-aid kit."

  
I scan the horizon. "Look for charts while you're rummaging." I squint hard in a northerly direction. A faint blur seems to interrupt the smooth edge of the horizon. Land? "And binoculars."

  
"Anything else?" A comforting, familiar grumble. "Kitchen sink, perhaps?"

  
"Well, now that you mention it… aspirin?"

  
"Way ahead of you." Of course he is.

  
He crawls out of the small cabin under the foredeck, first-aid kit dangling from one hand and binoculars from the other. He drops the binoculars on a seat and bends to the task of digging wood and glass out of my hands.

  
"No charts, but there is water and a bit of food."

  
The antiseptic he pours over my cuts stings and I yelp, mostly just to hear him scold me.

  
"Wimp."

  
"Sadist."

  
*  *  *  *  *

  
The faint blur on the horizon turned out to be a small but very pretty island, complete with a golden sand beach and a small forest of coconut palm trees. Which was a good thing, because the go-fast ran out of fuel just as we got within wading distance.

  
Now with dusk falling, Illya and I sit cross-legged in front of a merry little fire (I suspect matches were involved), but as far as I'm concerned neither the fire nor the last rays of the setting sun can compete with Illya's shaggy mop of gold. Still the warmth will be welcome soon, once the breezes cool down.

  
Directly behind me at the edge of the tree line is the snug little shelter we built out of a couple of tarps, two blankets, rope and duct tape we'd salvaged from the Little Miss Feisty. It would be a cosy little place to snuggle tonight. And perhaps for many more nights after that.

  
I watch as he paws through the rucksack of reclaimed food – not much available, but enough for a day or two. If rescue doesn't come by then, we might be in a world of hurt. But that's a worry for tomorrow. Tonight is for celebrating survival. We made it, we're alive and together. We're survivors, both of us; a deserted island can't withstand our combined talent.

  
How many times did I nearly lose him on this mission? My brilliant, reckless, efficient and dedicated partner. My best friend. My lover.

  
And then it occurs to me – this really could be paradise for us. Not just anybody shooting at us, but no whispers about the 'confirmed bachelors', no need to hide our feelings, no reason to be on guard 24/7 – we could just be here.

  
Even after we get rescued.

  
"I've always wanted my very own desert island," I say, idly, just to gauge his reaction. "Just so we could have the pleasure of being stranded on it whenever we wanted."

  
He looks up, confused. "What? A desert island? What is a desert island? Is there such a thing?"

  
"You know." I spread my arms wide to encompass, well everything. The beach, the trees, the ocean.

  
"Oh, Napoleon. This isn't a desert island. It's a tropical island." At first I think he's being completely literal, but he can't hide the gleam of mischief in his eyes.

  
"No, seriously, just think of the possibilities."

  
He tries to keep a straight face and fails spectacularly. "In that case, why don't you just put it on your expense report. Line item: one tropical island, for the personal use of. How much do islands go for these days?"

  
I lock eyes with him. "Ours would be priceless."

  
And he gets that expression on his face, the one where he looks like he's trying to laugh and cry at the same time and for a moment there I think he's going to lean over and kiss me, but he doesn't.

  
Instead, he straightens up and bows, like a maitre'd. "I'm sorry sir, but gentlemen are required to wear ties."

  
That's when I notice that he's brushed off his tattered tux as much as possible and put on his tie. Quite frankly, I'm just amazed that his tux and even the damn tie survived the night. God, he was so gorgeous that night at the party. And then Thrush crashed the party and took us prisoner. And you know what – wrinkled and stained and still with a residue of oil smoke on his face, he's still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

  
As I tie my tie as requested, it hits me. He's 'set a table', got the 'candlelight' – it's a date. A flat out honest-to-goodness real date just for us.

  
And I've got the chance of a lifetime here, on our own desert island. "May I have this dance?"

  
He comes into my arms just as sweetly as if we do every day and even lets me lead and we (more or less) sway to my questionable interpretation of Nat King Cole:

  
In time the Rockies may crumble  
Gibraltar may tumble  
They're only made of clay  
But our love is here to stay

  
And it's so unbelievably sweet to dance together like this, cheek to cheek, sharing quiet little kisses with no thought to any eyes that might judge or condemn.

  
Afterwards, we dine off of palm leaf plates: half a can of Spam and 2 individually wrapped Kraft caramels each. We have to share water out of the gallon jug.

  
Well, maybe not a complete paradise.

  
I fake a yawn. "It's been a long day. I might just turn in early." And grin like a loon.

  
He grins back, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I hope you're not too tired. All that dancing didn't wear you out, did it?"

  
"Actually, a little. That's quite a workout for the calves!"

  
"I was thinking that too. I wonder if we could get a sandpit for the gym? Sand forces you to use different muscles than we normally exercise."

  
"Are you serious?" I laugh, because he may be the most dedicated UNCLE agent ever. "We're on a desert island—"

  
"Deserted island," he corrects, entirely too smug.

  
"with no idea of when we might be rescued, if ever, and—?" I looked at him and he looked at me, his most guileless expression on display. I spoke slowly. "What am I missing here?"

  
A quirk of his lips warned me I might not like what he was about to say."Section Eight asked me to test their new long-range homing beacon if I got the chance. I activated it once we got here. In my shirt studs, of all places. They didn't take the shirt studs. Fantastic miniaturization, you would not believe the things that can be done with—"

  
I kissed him just to shut him up. I was all too familiar with that slightly demented fervor in his eyes; it usually presaged him disappearing into the labs for three days.

  
And, after all, I have a date to finish.


End file.
